


Among the Dreaming

by Unfair_Verona



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Artist Bucky Barnes, Beach Holidays, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Blow Jobs, Depression, Drinking, Exhibitionism, Exploration, Feelings, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Masturbation, New York, Ocean, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Professor Steve Rogers, Romance, Sexual Identity, Wealth, Writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-08-17 03:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16508318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfair_Verona/pseuds/Unfair_Verona
Summary: Bucky Barnes, a disinterested, gloomy artist, spends every summer at his wealthy family's house in the Hamptons. But the summer of 1935 becomes very different after the arrival of a guest, handsome literature Professor Steven Rogers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, the idea for this story just came to me one night and I decided to try and write it. It's my first work in this particular fandom, I love to read Stucky fics but I've never been brave enough to actually create any until now. Just to let everyone know, this story will contain some mentions of underage sex (ages 15-16) through a series of memories. This is necessary to the plot, as I want to explore Bucky coming to terms with his sexual identity. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Please let me know what you think!

_Do I dare disturb the universe?_  
- **T.S. Eliot**

 

The Hamptons, New York, 1935

 

The beach was surprisingly quiet that afternoon. The ocean lapped against the shoreline almost lazily, as if it had all the time in the world. James Buchanan Barnes, known to many as ‘Bucky’, walked barefoot near the water’s edge, the bottoms of his linen pants rolled up carefully so as not to drag in the surf. His feet made imprints in the sand and each small wave rolled in and gradually licked them away behind him. 

Bucky was nineteen years old and had spent his summers here for as long as he could remember. His family’s large house was less than a mile up the beach, one of the biggest in East Hampton. His father was in the steel business, the same as his grandfather. His mother had been a debutante, a society darling. They were old money, the picture of perfection. They’d been affected by the Depression only minutely, old money had a strange resiliency. Bucky had grown up surrounded by wealth. And it mattered little to him. In fact, it bored him to tears. 

He closed his eyes, felt the breeze and faint salt spray kiss against his face, let the sun touch his eyelids. Then he opened them again and looked around the beach. Several feet away were two people, a man and woman, probably in their early twenties.

He observed them out of the corner of his eye. His gaze roved over the woman’s round bottom, up to her large breasts, straining at the top of her bathing suit. His cock stirred faintly. The man beside her was dark haired, tall, and leanly muscled. Bucky’s eyes trailed downward, feeling those familiar pangs of sharp lust beginning as he noticed the bulge in the front of the stranger’s wet swimming trunks, the outline of a large cock. 

Unconsciously, his tongue darted out to lick over his lips. He turned and headed back to the house, hoping that the walk would clear his head. There was a strange and particular witchcraft in early summer at the beach. The air was young and ripe with possibilities, it whispered and made seductive promises that it could never keep. There was an exhilarating danger in the salt drenched, sun-heated world. Bucky’s mind struggled to capture the exact blue of the sky, so very vivid this day. Cerulean, perhaps. Maybe deeper. And out on the horizon, where it dipped to meet the water it was a hazy turquoise, a liminal state. It would never look the same on canvas, though, it never did. Bucky longed to paint landscapes, the natural world, but his true artistic talent lay with capturing people. Over the years, he’d been praised by his teachers for his rare ability with faces, expressions, the human form. His life drawings had been hung in the studio classroom as an example for the other students. And Bucky should have been elated by this. But he could only think of all the landscapes, the mountain ranges and valleys and trees and oceans trapped inside him, their colors unrealized. 

He arrived at the house, sweat beading on his forehead. He’d barely been here for a week and he was already getting tan from the sun. His mother and father had gone to the train station to pick up a friend of his father’s, who would be staying with them for part of the summer. Bucky didn’t know anything about this person, and hadn’t cared to ask. He had a pervasive disinterest in his parents’ lives. This feeling had begun in childhood and had only grown stronger over the years, as if he were a stranger, born into the wrong world. 

 

The mansion was large and empty-seeming. One of the maids had opened nearly all the windows, and curtains lifted softly like gauzy ghosts. Bucky’s head swam from heat and arousal, still, at the memory of the man and woman on the beach. He could feel his erection pressing against his trousers. Taking a quick glance around, he made sure that any staff were occupied in another wing and that he was alone. Then, with a sigh, he headed into the solarium and closed the door. This was one of his favorite rooms in the entire house. Full of indoor plants and trees, it was a feast of color for the eyes. Enormous windows let in light, looking out onto the rear yard. The whole place smelled heavily of flowers. 

Bucky settled himself down on the chaise and ran a hand down to press against his cock through the fabric. He didn’t mind the windows. There was nobody outside to see what he was doing, and if he were being completely honest, Bucky always felt a small shiver of excitement at his own exhibitionism, at the idea that someone _could_ potentially be looking in. Thoughts of both the man and the woman from the beach swept into his mind, he tugged down the zipper of his pants and freed himself, letting out a contented hum at the sensation of cool air against his eager prick. He hissed faintly as he wrapped fingers around the shaft, beginning a series of slow strokes. He tried to imagine the woman’s breasts, but as he increased in pace, the vision in his mind’s eye changed to the athletic young man, his chiseled torso, the outline of cock in his shorts. Bucky’s hand moved faster, imagining touching that hot silky rod between the man’s legs, hearing him moan and thrust. His hips were jerking wildly. 

He knew that he looked deviant and wicked, sprawled there beneath the trees and flowers like some shameless pagan god, his naked cock in his hand, straining and leaking precum. He wriggled and groaned, getting closer. He was on his knees on the sand, mouth full of swollen dick. Faster. Faster. Taking it deep into his throat, fingers in his hair, yanking roughly as his mouth was abused. Waiting for the explosion. Bucky found himself falling over the edge, hurried to grab a handkerchief as his seed erupted from him in hot, sticky gobs. 

He closed his eyes, waiting for his heart to calm. Summer always made him feel this way. Perhaps it was because he’d come of age in a summer here, discovering himself. Bucky had been fifteen and overwhelmed by his relentless sex drive. That summer he’d spent a lot of time with Dorothy and Robbie Nicholls, neighbor twins who were the same age as he. His stirrings of lustful feelings were becoming all the more pronounced. Soon he had an outlet for his fevered dreams, when Dorothy kissed him by the rocks on the shoreline. He still remembered her soft lips, her tanned shoulders, pert round breasts that filled his hands, his fingers eagerly rubbing over her nipples, feeling them stiffen. She’d moaned and squirmed. Then her hand was on his crotch, clumsily squeezing and exploring. 

The next day, he and Robbie were alone on the beach. Dorothy was out with her mother. Robbie had sandy brown hair and hazel eyes just like his sister. Same soft, full lips also. Before he knew it, they were pressed against his and his arms were around the other boy and he was dizzy because it seemed wrong but also so _wonderful_. And then his cock was hard and aching and he could feel that Robbie’s was, too. Then their hands were on each other, groping and eager, and Bucky was like a man possessed. There was something so exciting about it, the throbbing rod in his hand, the way the other boy kept wriggling and rocking. Their hands moved quick and roughly beneath the fabric, until they came almost simultaneously. 

He’d messed around a bit with Dorothy again, but his mind burned with thoughts of Robbie and they continued their passionate explorations and were discovering the pleasures of putting their mouths on each other. Before the twins left at the end of the month the boys had one clumsy attempt at intercourse, but they’d both been too excited. Bucky had lain on his stomach, eagerly waiting, his cock pressing against the mattress. He rocked his hips in want, needing to be filled. He felt the blunt head of Robbie’s cock at his small opening and he trembled in anticipation, his dick leaking onto the sheets. Before he’d barely pressed in at all, they both came. That was the beginning. And then the following summer…well….

He blinked, pulling out of his daze. He hadn't wanted to remember all that, but something about the couple on the beach had brought it all back. Bucky collected himself. The others would be returning home soon.

 

 

Bucky poured himself a drink while he waited for his parents to arrive, idly peering around the library, feeling detached, the way he often did when the late afternoon sunlight came through the windows. The way it fell across the floor always made him feel drowsy and unreal. Then a strange chill went up his back, tremors of anticipation. A tugging in his solar plexus. Like a premonition of sorts. Then he blinked and it passed. 

His mother and father arrived in a flurry of motion, perfume, and the faint scent of cigar smoke. And beyond it all something else, a new scent. A new person. Oh yes, the guest. Bucky felt another chill, a pleasant one that raced over his skin like water, jolting him into alertness as he looked into the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Chiseled features, breathtakingly handsome. A strong jaw, deep blue eyes behind black-framed glasses. He was tall, dressed in an elegant shirt and blazer, strong muscles barely hidden underneath. Bucky’s heart stuttered.

“Ah, there you are,” said Mr. Barnes, spotting Bucky lingering in the doorway, motioning his over. “Come meet Dr. Steven Rogers. Steve is a professor of English Literature at Princeton.” 

Mouth dry, legs wobbly, Bucky moved forward. “I’m James,” he managed. Those blue eyes fixed directly on him and his blood felt too-close to the surface of his skin. Their hands met in a strong shake, and Bucky memorized the touch, the feel of long fingers wrapped around his. Lips curved up into a smile, and then the Roman god spoke: 

“Pleased to meet you, James.”

 

 

At dinner, Steve was seated across from Bucky at the long dining room table. Bucky fidgeted with his fork, nervously taking sips of wine every few minutes. His neck felt flushed. He tried not to stare at Dr. Rogers, but it was difficult. Was he being terribly awkward? He had no appetite, at least not for food, the roast chicken and vegetables went largely ignored on his plate. His palms were sweating.

“So, James, your father tells me that you’re something of an artist.”

He was being spoken to. He should probably respond, he realized. He was just sitting there, blinking dumbly, lost in their guest’s eyes. Something about the color, that hazy, liminal ocean-sky shade.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Um, well…yes, I like to paint. And sketch.”

“He’s hoping to attend art school in the fall,” his mother added. His father gave an eye-roll. “Art is fine as a hobby. But as a career….”

“Dear, let’s not start that again,” Mrs. Barnes interjected with a careful smile. 

“I think art is a wonderful pursuit,” Steve remarked to Bucky with a nod. “The world needs artists. We need beauty around us, to give us something to appreciate. To see ourselves in. I would love to see some of your work.”

“I…sure,” Bucky mumbled, feeling somewhat lightheaded. He took another large sip of wine.

 

The sun was setting. Bucky stepped out onto the patio and lit a cigarette. He leaned on the stone wall and stared out at the shadows crawling through the garden. The evening air was heavy with the scent of wisteria. He tried to collect his thoughts. It had been so long since he’d felt…whatever this was. Actually, had he ever felt this way before? Bucky couldn’t recall. Footsteps behind him made him turn and see that he wasn’t alone. Steve smiled at him and pulled a cigarette from his case. 

“Mind if I join you, James?” he asked.

“Not at all. And you can call me Bucky.”

Steve smiled wider. “Bucky.” He rolled the name around in his mouth, testing it. “Interesting name. Where’s it come from?”

“Middle name is Buchanan,” he offered. 

“Ah.”

They stood in silence for a moment. “This is a beautiful house,” Dr. Rogers remarked. “It was very kind of your parents to invite me.”

Bucky nodded, acutely aware of the way that the evening light played over Steve’s cheekbones, the way his lips closed around the cigarette. “How long will you be staying?” he found himself asking.

“A few weeks, probably. Your father suggested that it might be a nice quiet place for me to work on my book. I promise I won’t get in your way.”

“No! I mean, I’m sure that you won’t. It…it will be nice to have company.”

Steve studied him for a long, tremulous moment, and Bucky felt beautifully uneasy, as if the air had suddenly thinned and filled with quiet ghosts. “So, you’re writing a book?” he asked, as a way of breaking the silence that had descended.

The other man nodded and sighed. “Yes. I have been for some time. Hoping to finally buckle down and finish it.”

“I’d love to read it when you do,” Bucky blurted, then immediately hoped he hadn’t sounded too overeager. But Steve merely gave a kind smile and Bucky felt a strong pulling around his heart. The cigarette was making him dizzy. Everything about the day had thrown off his equilibrium, and he needed to try and collect himself. “I should probably be heading in, I’ve got some work to do.”

“Of course,” said Steve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. Yes.” Bucky turned awkwardly, feeling like his feet were hovering above the ground. There seemed to be a sudden lack of gravity.

To his credit, he did try to work on a few sketches, but there was only one image in his mind, with a strong jaw and luminous ocean-colored eyes, now haunting him. He closed his eyes. Everyone was turning in for the night. His heart stuttered a bit when he heard the door to the spare room open—Steve’s room, he reminded himself. Bucky slipped on a pair of soft cotton sleep pants and climbed into bed. Pictures pulsed behind his eyelids, golden tanned skin, the definition of a bicep, a thigh, the curve of lips. All separate at first, in charcoal, then oil pants, vivid color. Abdominal muscles. Lower. He bit his lip, felt himself harden, that familiar pressure reminding him of what he was: wicked, perverted, whorish. But he had known this for some time.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, felt his length pulsing, needy. He started to move, slipping into the familiar rhythm. It felt better than earlier. Because earlier, there hadn’t been Steve. Strong arms around him, hot mouth, fingers, thick cock, sweat and motion. A moan tore from his throat and he was unable to stop it, and a part of him actually hoped that the man in the next room had heard him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my word, I'm so sorry about how long it took me to update this! I have no excuses. I promise I will try to be more consistent from now on!

There was a different feeling to the house, now that Steve was here. It seemed curiously alive in a way that it had not before. There was a new smell in the air, something clean and fresh. Vibrant. Bucky wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Subtle cracks were emerging in his carefully constructed wall of apathy.

He slept in longer than he should have, then dressed and wandered out to greet the day. The house was quiet, the windows were open again, and Bucky could smell flowers and sea. He considered taking a walk down to the beach, or perhaps into town, and then decided against it. He was feeling restless and strange. He wondered where Steve was. The monotony was thankfully broken by the sound of high heels on the floor. Bucky looked up to see Natasha standing there, having let herself in through the unlocked front door. Natasha lived with her aunt and uncle, who had a house nearby. She was always good company; they had an arrangement of sorts. Hellos were exchanged and they chatted for a few minutes and then they found themselves in Bucky’s bedroom. 

Natasha straddled him, moving on top, her head thrown back, long red hair spilling down. She was still in her dress, unbuttoned at the top so that her ample breasts were exposed, jiggling in front of his face with the motion of her body. His hands came up to cup and caress them, pinching her hard, rosy nipples in the way he knew she liked. They’d been doing this for nearly two years now, and it seemed to suit them. Natasha had a sex drive as strong as his, she was smart and observant, and had a great sense of humor. She was his friend.

They didn’t pretend to have deep feelings for one another, and Bucky knew she had lots of other partners, both male and female, just the way he did. She knew his secret, understood him. Their bodies fit together nicely and they always made each other come, like they were about to at the moment. Nat squeezed her inner walls around his cock and he felt his orgasm approaching, but today he wasn’t thinking about her curvy thighs and wet, clenching pussy—he was thinking about harder edges, muscle, blonde hair, a different sort of body altogether. 

That was fine, though. Bucky wagered that she wasn’t thinking about him, either. Natasha cried out, spasming on top of him and he followed suit, quickly. Sometimes he pulled out and came on her tits—there was something obscenely alluring about the sight—but other times he stayed inside of her. It didn’t matter, because she couldn’t have children. She never elaborated on why. Natasha was a very guarded young woman, and Bucky respected this.

She climbed off of him and sighed contentedly, situating herself on the bed, pulling a cigarette from the pack on the night stand, passing one to him, also. They smoked in sweet silence for a moment.

“How are the auditions going?” Bucky asked finally. He knew that she wanted to be an actress, had gotten a few minor roles in plays were and there, but she had her sights on Broadway.

Natasha shrugged. “Alright,” she replied. “I have another one in a few days.”

“Have you ever considered using a different name?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Why?”

He shifted. “Just because…maybe you’d get more roles if you chose something less…Russian.”

She laughed. “My family _is_ Russian.”

“Yes, but your last name is Rudenovich. If you were going to change it anyway, why pick _Romanov_?”

Natasha took a drag on her cigarette. “It’s timely,” she answered after a moment.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s ostentatious. The tsar was killed over a decade ago. I mean, things seem to be getting better now, but why take chances and keep reminding people. I mean…you could be anyone. Isn’t that the point of acting? Why not reinvent yourself completely? Become…Nancy Roberts or something?”

She laughed again, and he couldn’t help but feel that it was at his expense. “Because the last thing the world needs is another ‘Nancy Roberts’. And because _I’m_ not ashamed of what I am,” she added pointedly. “I don’t need to hide.”

He scowled. “I’m not hiding anything,” he mumbled, even though they both knew that was a lie. 

“Sure.” Natasha stubbed out her cigarette. “How have things been going with you?” she asked. “Honestly.”

Bucky sighed. “I’m fine, Nat.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He snorted. “Believe what you want.”

She climbed off of the bed, adjusting her dress and collecting her knickers, which had been carelessly tossed onto the bedpost. “You need to stop moping around this house like a ghost. It’s depressing. You’re an artist. Why don’t you get out and…art.”

“I get out plenty.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “What, you walk down to the beach a few times a week. How’s about actually traveling, seeing the world. How do you expect to capture life if you don’t live?”

His skin prickled with the acuity of her words. Bucky felt annoyed at her sharp observances. Natasha was always too smart for her own good.

“I’m fine, really,” he said, in a tone that indicated the subject was closed. 

She eyed him for a long moment. “Alright,” she relented. “Suit yourself, Gloomy Gus.” She combed her fingers through her deep red hair, trying to make herself look presentable. “Hey, did that friend of your pops’ ever show up?” 

Something flipped inside of his stomach at the mention of Steve. He felt instantly dirty.

“Buck?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “He arrived yesterday.”

“Hmmm, what’s he like? Stuffy and old, I bet. Lots of tweed.”

“Nah, not really old.”

“You’re _blushing_ ,” Natasha observed, moving closer. A smile was building in the corners of her mouth. She was on to him, as usual.

“I’m not, Nat,” he groaned. “Don’t you have places to be?”

She chuckled. “Aw, Buck, you really know how to romance a girl.”

He climbed out of bed and got dressed, then walked Natasha out. “I don’t know why you bother,” she joked. “You should just make me climb out the window.”

“Nat, stop it.”

“Or maybe you _want_ them all to see you with a girl.”

“Come _on_.” Once again, she’d gotten beneath his skin in that way only she could. “Don’t be like that, please. You’re…my best friend.” That was true, he realized. In fact, she was probably his only friend.

“Don’t get soft on me, Barnes,” Natasha said, but there was warmth in her eyes. She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she headed down the hall to the front door. As she was walking out, Steve entered. They glanced at each other as they passed, and Bucky winced slightly as she looked back over her shoulder at him and winked, a smirk on her face. Then she sashayed out. 

Steve smiled kindly at Bucky. “James. Doing alright?”

“Yeah. Fine. You?” He tried to sound casual.

“I’m very well, I’ve just been out getting some air and stretching my legs. This is a beautiful area.”

Bucky nodded dumbly, wishing that he wasn't so awkward and tongue-tied.

“Your parents left this morning, your mother wanted to look at some antiques, I believe," Steve said. "They asked me to tell you that they won’t be back until later.”

“Ok.”

Still smiling, he motioned Bucky towards the study. “Come on,” he said. “Have a drink with me.”

Steve poured them both a few fingers of scotch. As he handed the glass to Bucky, he mentioned, “That was a very pretty young lady I saw leaving. Striking hair, you don’t often see that color.”

“That’s just Natasha,” Bucky mumbled. “She’s a friend.”

“Ah,” said Steve. His expression was hard to read.

Bucky felt the sudden need for clarification. “Really. Her family lives nearby. We talk sometimes, just as pals.” Pals who occasionally did sordid things to one another. He started sweating. He could still smell the musky-sweet combination of sex and floral perfume drenching his body, and he wondered if Steve could smell it, too. He nervously took a sip of his drink, feeling the warmth slide down his throat. 

“You’re so quiet, James,” Steve observed, cocking his head to the side. He lit a cigarette, studying Bucky with his deep blue eyes, making him feel naked. “Such a pensive young man. I suppose maybe that’s natural in an artist, I’m sure you spend a lot of time merely observing.” 

Bucky was the one being observed now, and he wondered what Steve was seeing in him. Steve was a writer, he painted with words, not colors. He wished that he knew what words were flowing through the other man’s mind, the picture that he was creating of James Buchanan Barnes.

“I…I don’t always know what to say,” Bucky admitted. “I guess I feel…” he fumbled for the words, “…it’s strange, but sometimes, this place doesn’t even seen real to me.” He gestured around at the polished mahogany, their opulent surroundings. “Like my whole life is just a weird play that I’ve wandered into. And it feels wrong, like clothes that don’t fit. But I can’t get myself out.”

Steve moved closer. He rested a hand on Bucky’s arm. The touch was warm, comforting. “I know that feeling very well. It just means that you are more sensitive, more awake than most. You don’t have time for all the pageantry of wealth. It looks nice, but at the end of the day, it isn’t real. There’s no substance behind it, no soul.” 

The hand on his arm began to stroke with soothing motions. Bucky trembled. Steve leaned closer, reaching around his body to stab out his cigarette in the ashtray behind him, giving him a thrill of contact, a brush of all that hard muscle. They were now about a breath apart. Bucky was sure that Steve could hear his heart pounding. He couldn’t think. All reason had fled and there was nothing but color and feeling and smell. 

“You strike me as a person with a lot of depth, feelings churning under the surface. You desire many things, James, you’re full of appetites,” Steve continued.

At the present moment, Bucky certainly _was_ , and those appetites and desires were now rising to the surface with dizzying velocity. His skin tingled, felt charged with electricity. Steve was still so near, Bucky could smell cologne and scotch, those blue eyes were dragging him under. He’d never been this closely scrutinized before, had never been _seen_ before. Not like this. And then, before he could stop himself, he was kissing the other man. Something inside of him had snapped and all his control fled. He was so _hungry_ , and all he could feel was Steve’s warm lips; he tasted liquor and cigarettes and wanted more. 

Steve did not pull away, instead he wound his strong arms around Bucky and reached up to grab a hand full of his hair and tug gently as he flicked his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, coaxing forth a moan. 

Bucky felt like he was drowning, but this was fine. He pressed himself against the firm wall of Steve’s body, grinding their hips together. Steve bit down on Bucky’s lips and then pulled away. He looked at him with lust and mirth glittering in his hazy sea-and-sky eyes. “Just as I thought. Lots of appetites,” he repeated. “But no discipline. You need to learn that, to truly be an artist.”

“I can learn,” slurred Bucky, feeling drunk. His world had turned completely upside down, and he was clinging to Steve like a lifeline. The other man’s hand came to rest gently against Bucky’s throat, his fingers pressed there, feeling the thud of his pulse.

“I won’t go easy on you,” he whispered.


End file.
